As part of the Black Writer’s Program I’m participating in via the NY Writer’s Coalition, each week we’re given a prompt with which to write about. This week’s prompts were on death. I selected the one where you create a poem. We were given 30 minutes to write something and then we shared our pieces with the rest of the class. The following is an original work. Enjoy!
Dead.
Either by car accident, murder (cause of this reckless tongue), or old age – I’m dead.
I think.
Darkness.
Cold.
Quiet.
A spot of light or fire in the distance.
Heaven?
Hell?
Employment in the afterlife?
Uncertainty creeps over me.
I fail to believe my ancestors wildest dreams would be me graduating from college regardless of age or major.
But here I am – young, educated, black, and dead.
Will I see my Grandma, the only person I’m hoping to see in this the next plain of existence?
So far – not yet.
White Jesus… bet not be real. Black Jesus reveal yourself. I have a few questions to ask.
Slavery? Nothing? Okay.
I can’t see myself but I feel differently.
Still unsure of where or when I am.
I’m wearing different clothes too.
As I look down at my hands, they seem unfamiliar but comforting.
The light seems constant but further away.
I’m not hot or cold – so seriously where am I
Much like Neo in The Matrix I question whether I’m awake or dreaming
The light or fire is flickering.
I liken the space I’m in to that also in the matrix before the program is loaded.
Is someone deciding where I should go
Am I deciding where I should go
beep, beep, beep
Clear!
gasp
An unfamiliar voice asks – are you okay?
On the flip side, much like the Oracle I’m amazed that this is still going —
What’s really going to bake your noodle later on is, would you still have broken it if I hadn’t said anything?
